Claire called from the living room, asking if he wanted tea. Daniel mumbled something and closed the laptop. His chest felt hollow, as if someone had scooped out the core of him. He looked at the framed drawing on the fridge; Ethan’s uneven handwriting spelling out “World’s Best Dad.”
For hours he told himself it didn’t matter. He was their father, every scraped knee and bedtime story proved it. Biology didn’t define love. Yet the thought crept in anyway, insidious as mold: if you’re infertile, then how…? He pushed the question down, but it burned like acid.